


Elijah's Violin

by Aquafolie, ElDiablito_SF



Series: Vaguely Victorian Verse [2]
Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Bees, M/M, Nudity, absolute idiots, current chaos, future Silverflintham, past Silvermadi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-08
Updated: 2019-06-08
Packaged: 2020-04-05 07:52:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19044289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aquafolie/pseuds/Aquafolie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/pseuds/ElDiablito_SF
Summary: “A mage, a sorcerer, and a warlock walk into my bar,” says a woman behind the counter.  “Have you heard this one before?”The city of Venice is in turmoil: someone has been turning people to stone. Years after the events that landed them both in hot water and separated them, Flint and Silver are thrown together to solve a dangerous magical mystery. They are joined on their mission by Thomas (who may or may not have a pet Hellhound). The three magicians must work together (and try not to kill each other) before the Carnival of Venice devours them as well.





	Elijah's Violin

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a sequel to the tiny treat I wrote for the SF Holiday Cheer called [A Night in Ljubljana](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17142683).  
> You will want to read it because it sets up the verse for this adventure.
> 
> The setting here is Vaguely Victorian, but let us not trouble ourselves with historical facts. Since this is a magic AU, I’m using that as an excuse to not adhere to historical accuracy of our current timeline. For example, I know that Venice didn’t hold Carnival during the 19th Century, but we are aggressively ignoring that, among other things.
> 
> Story by ElDiablito_SF (aka @Jadedbirch on Tumblr), Art by @Aquafolie and @Madisilverflint

 

Flint awakens to the sound of the wind batting at his door like an uninvited guest, certain he must still be drunk. As fate would have it, leaving Carniola is a far more complicated task than infiltrating it had been. All he had to do was present his credentials signed by the Quorum to the local magistrates, and he was given the run of the place. But after exactly zero children disappeared (allegedly eaten or otherwise) on Krampusnacht (a deed for which, incidentally, he claimed no credit), it appears the locals have no intention of letting either him or Silver get on their way.

But where precisely? Flint supposes his path lies home to Cornwall, where he had settled with Thomas after… Well. And Silver? Silver can go back to whatever hellhole he had crawled out of. If they can ever leave Ljubljana at all. Flint is beginning to suspect at least some if not all of the rumors of people being eaten here are true. Judging at least by the amount of gratitude that had been bestowed rather forcefully down their throats, mostly in the from of local food and drink.

Silver still slumbers in the adjoining bed, belly full of local fare surely intended to fatten him up to a point where it becomes acceptable to consume him. It’s a good thing that Silver doesn’t know what Krvavice, Vampi, or Želodec actually are, or else he may have been less enthusiastic in his devourment of them. It’s all for the best. The locals do not take kindly to you not accepting their culinary profferings, and even less kindly to you not finishing them.

And then the snowfall started. And even had the horses been strong enough to carry their overfed asses away from Ljubljana, it was doubtful they’d make it in quite such a vociferous blizzard. The coachmen of Eastern Europe were hardly themselves all magicians.

Flint looks sadly at his wand, lying next to Silver’s on the narrow console underneath the tarnished mirror on the wall of their guest house. He barely remembers Silver slithering his way back into his life, into his room, into the adjoining bed. Their wands remember though. All those years they had spent together as partners, watching each other’s backs, the loves and the lives lost in the struggle that threatened to take them both too. Until Silver… But that was then.

The wands remember. They roll close to one another like familiars, lying in wait, tails wrapped around each other’s bodies, like all the homeless cats of Ljubljana. Silver would curl himself around Flint the same way when they had shared a bed. Silver purred like a cat too sometimes when Flint would stroke his pelt just so, eyelids half mast, curled into him like he was the only source of heat in the universe. Silver, that little stray who had more natural magical ability in his little finger than Flint had garnered from all the tomes he’d perused during his studies of spells and potions. Silver, who had saved Flint’s life countless times during the meat grinder that was the marine revolts. Silver, who had fallen in love with a siren. Silver, who had turned necromancer and brought Thomas back from the dead just to make sure that Flint would be strayed from the path he’d been so set upon for a decade. Silver, who’d broken every Quorum rule and then fled.

Silver, who’d apparently learned to snore in the intervening years.

There’s another powerful knock against the window, and for a moment Flint assumes it to be the wind again. But when he turns, he sees the black shadow of a wing, a judgemental black eye watching him through the frost-covered glass where the Snow Queen must have passed the night before. There’s a raven waiting for him to open the window, and so he lets the messenger in, once he summons up a quick spell to unfreeze the windowpane.

“What in all the hells,” Silver mutters from his bed and burrows deeper under the furs as the chill from the outside follows the bird in.

“We have a message from the Quorum,” Flint says as he unties the little scroll from the bird’s foot. Before he even reads the message, he propitiates the tireless messenger by pouring the bird some strong local brandy into a shallow dish. The raven preens and shows Flint his ass as he begins to drink, Silver rubbing sleep out of his eyes as he watches from across the room.

“What’s the Quorum gotta do with me?” Silver asks while he simultaneously yawns and scratches his own armpit.

“All right, _I_ have a message from the Quorum,” Flint replies with a grandiose eye roll. How easily he’d fallen back into their familiar _we_. He almost hates himself for it, except he never did hate himself when he was with Silver. They fit together, like their two wands. “You have a message from your Lord Satan, surely, somewhere, if only you’d go out in the blizzard looking for it.” He doubts very much that Silver buys that little outburst, for surely he sees through it as easily as the raven saw through the frosted glass.

“I believe you’re thinking about your husband, the dark warlock, again,” Silver replies, ostensibly unmoved. He’s still watching the bird with eyes full of distrust.

Flint won’t rise to the bait, so he puffs out an exhalation of indignation and unrolls the raven’s missive so he can finally learn what it says.

_Your company is requested at midday on the Butcher’s Bridge. You’ll know your contact by the red gloves. Bring Mr. Silver with you, we may have need of him._

***

The Butcher's Bridge is almost empty, the snow having driven all except for the most dogged of merchants and stragglers away. Silver stands next to Flint, his hands deep in the pockets of his coat, fingerless gloves barely protecting the sensitive digits from frost. Flint remembers Silver needs his fingers bare for spell casting, just as he remembers that the appearance of two intact legs that Silver stands upon is merely an illusion. When they are alone in their room, Silver allows the illusion to lift, and that too is another stab to Flint's heart. To see how much Silver still trusts him, to see how little he cares for the show of vulnerability when they're together. Neither one of them had exactly worn their heart on their sleeve when they were in the Caribbean, but they knew. They knew it was not magic that had tied them together. It was love. Simple, human, warts and all love.

“I hope you realize it's probably a trap,” Silver says. “The Quorum will use you to get to me. It would be ironic if you let them charge me with necromancy, all things considered.”

“Oh, do shut up, Silver,” Flint mutters without any heat behind it. The truth is, this ceaseless chattering is familiar and warm, like a hot cider settling in your intestines on a cold winter night.

“Never thought I'd see the day that you of all people turn the Quorum's puppet,” Silver snipes.

Now, that gets a rise out of Flint. “You damn well know you left me no choice! It was the only thing I could do to prevent them from putting Thomas back in the ground!”

“I didn't think you'd remain in their service so long,” Silver protests. “How could I have anticipated you'd actually move back to England? That you wouldn't just take him and flee somewhere the Quorum had no jurisdiction! China! Persia! Russia, for fuck's sakes!”

“There's nowhere we could've gone where they wouldn't have tracked him! And running would've made it look like they were right all along. That he had something to hide. At least this way they leave us alone, in relative peace.”

“So long as you do their bidding.”

“You really have no leg to stand on here,” Flint says and immediately bites his tongue.

“Classy,” Silver replies, turning demonstratively away.

Flint is about to speak again, when someone clears their throat right next to him. A woman, wearing a long cloak with white fur trim around her deep cowl that covers the eyes, stands behind him, hands encased in red gloves are folded in front of her like a calling card.

“Captain Flint,” she says, “It's good to see you again.” She shifts up her hood to expose her blue eyes and Flint recognizes that face despite the passing years that have given it the settled aura of maturity.

“Abigail Ashe,” he mutters. She is a ghost from his past. He can almost imagine Miranda standing at her side, smiling at him with unfettered pride at how their little foundling had grown into a poised and refined lady. “You are the Quorum's agent?”

The young witch nods. “I trained under Eleanor Guthrie.” Flint's not at all surprised to hear that. His protegée always had an eye for recruiting young talent.

“While this is a touching reunion,” Silver says, stepping forward, “I'm hoping you will come to the point, Miss Ashe. Precisely, what brings you here and what has any of this to do with me.”

“A chance, Mr. Silver,” she says with a smile, “to work off your debt and have the bounty on your wand lifted.” She turns to Flint. “Something terrible has been happening in Venice. The Quorum believes dark magic is afoot.”

“Something terrible happens daily all over the world,” Silver shrugs. “What makes this case so special?”

“People are being turned to stone,” Abigail says. “Several of our own agents have been petrified while conducting the investigation. This job is simply too dangerous to entrust to someone without proper training and backup. Or, to put it simply, you are dispensable Mr. Silver, and Captain Flint will need a partner.”

She's grown bold, and has picked up Eleanor's way of speaking, and Flint can't help but smile.

“He already has a partner,” Silver points out, his blue eyes giving off a sinister glow. “His name is Lord Thomas Hamilton.”

“Who will be joining you two in Venice,” Abigail says.

“What?” Flint and Silver speak in unison.

“Great,” Silver mutters under his breath.

As much as Flint would love to see Thomas, it sure as hell isn't under circumstances such as these. Thomas and dark magic, sure. Thomas and Silver and dark magic… Flint's frown freezes onto his brow in the cold.

“It's an all hands on deck situation, to use a marine metaphor you'll understand,” the young witch says with cool composure. If there's an underlying threat in those words, her face doesn't show it. “Here are your new passports. You'll be leaving for Venice right away. A coach will take you to Trieste, where a boat shall be waiting to take you to Venice. The name of the ship you'll be looking for is La Strega Cieca.”

“How very cheering,” Silver sneers. “And what coachman is mad enough to drive us in such a gale to this Blind Witch?”

Abigail holds up one of her scarlet-gloved hands and a carriage appears through the snow behind her, horses pounding the bridge with their hooves, manes flowing like dark wings behind them, their breath turning to frost in the winter air. The coachman's box is occupied by a man with fiery red hair and a horrific scar across his face. He tips his fingers to his top hat, grinning crookedly.

“Top of the morning, Captains!”

“I don't know whether to be outraged or relieved,” Silver says while Flint slowly comes to terms with the fact that Israel Hands is somehow back in his life now, as well. Venice and the spectres of his past, it would appear, beckon.

***

Even with Hands at the reins, the journey to the port of Trieste is a long and bumpy one. Flint flinches as the carriage plummets along the icy road, Silver's peg just barely missing his eye as they get thrown about the coach like a couple of ragdolls.

“I thought he could control the weather,” Flint grouses, as he picks his fur hat off the bottom of the coach and forces it back over his ears. “Can't he part the fucking snow or the melt the ice?”

“Iz might be able to control the weather, but he's never claimed to be able to control the horses.” Silver attempts to right himself, one hand grasping Flint's thigh (for purchase), the other clenching Flint's shoulder (for support).

“We'll be lucky if all of Venice hasn't been turned to stone by the time we get there,” Flint says as he valiantly tries not to think about the heat coming off Silver's exposed fingertips.

“What do you reckon that's about?” Silver muses. “Some sort of a Lot's Wife situation?”

Flint is far too deliberate to make up his mind about anything before he gets there. And at this rate, he might himself be frozen into an ice sculpture before they even get to Venice.

“I am a bit relieved to at least have someone watching my back on this job,” Silver prattles on. “And I do mean Hands, for the record. If memory serves, when you watch my ass, you literally only _watch my ass_.” Flint only emits a non-committal grunt. “Not that I haven't done my share of ass-watching, mind you. Hey, do you remember when you tried to teach me the cloaking spell but I couldn't do it because I kept staring at your crotch?”

Flint snorts. There are certain parts of their past he wishes he could forget, but if this encounter has proven anything, it's that Silver doesn't need to use magic to bedevil him. “Your spell-casting was always shoddy at best,” he replies with a soft smile, just as the carriage appears to lunge and veer dangerously close to the cliff, and Silver falls into his arms again.

His nose is buried in Flint's neck and he whispers “Sorry…” in a way that implies he's anything but.

 

 

                                                                                                                                    

 

***

La Strega Cieca carries them across the Gulf of Trieste. In the belly of the beast, Flint cannot help but think of the darkness of the grave, and the veil that separates the living from the dead. In some ways, the veil is like the sea, you can traverse it, it swells and ebbs more on some nights and in certain places, some people can navigate it better than others. He thinks of Silver and his fingertips, how easy it is for him to sense the changes in the ley lines, how deftly the veil parted before him to allow Thomas to walk among the living. And at what cost.

_Silver had said, “This isn't what I wanted,” his wand pointing squarely at Flint's chest. And Flint knew he'd been betrayed, although he did not yet know how. “Your war against the Quorum, it has to end. One way or another. And since you'd refused the one way, I had to choose another.”_

_“My war will end with me or not at all,” Flint hissed, fingers twitching towards his own wand. “You'll have to kill me, Silver. There is no other way.”_

_Smiling that sad vagabond smile of his, Silver shook his head. “There's always another way, James. Have you learned nothing from all our time together?”_

_That must've been the moment Israel Hands had treacherously hit him with a blinding spell. And when Flint could see again, what he saw took his breath away._

“Silver,” Flint calls out while his hammock sways softly under his body. “Are you asleep?”

“Not anymore,” comes the groggy response.

“I never found out,” Flint says. “The sacrifice you had to offer up to bring back Thomas. Who was it?”

Silver chews on what appears to be a piece of hay while he looks at the boards over his head. “No one you'd miss.”

“No more doubletalk, Silver. If we're to work together in Venice, we can't leave the past hanging over us. No more lies, no more secrets, no more fucking surprises.”

“No more talking in triples, this isn't some fucking incantation.”

“Fuck you, Silver,” Flint says, resigned to a life of perpetual annoyance.

Silver sighs. “Billy Bones, all right?”

Flint rubs his eyes with the pads of his hands. “Oh.”

“Anything else you'd like to know?”

“You and Billy were friends once,” Flint says, hoping it doesn't sound like the accusation it can't avoid but sound as.

“Not as close friends as you and I,” Silver replies. He sounds tired, as if he's had this conversation many times before.

“Guess I got the long end of the betrayal stick,” Flint says and Silver snorts in return.

“Guess you did.”

Flint opens his mouth. He almost says the words aloud. _Thank you_. But he closes his mouth instead and tries to go to sleep.

***

A kit of pigeons lands gracelessly in the middle of Piazza San Marco just as the bells toll calling the faithful to service. Carnevale is a week away, but the revelers have already flocked to the city like colorful birds themselves, a parade of plumes and fabrics covers the canals, and the songs of the gondoliers resound like mating calls through the streets of Venice.

Silver walks next to Flint, a dandyish cane hitting against the flagstones as they duck underneath a low entryway into a small church. Chiesa di Some-Saint-or-Other. Flint can't keep track and Venice is full of them. A scene by Veronese graces the low ceiling, a piece of treasure left over from centuries ago, which has managed to escape the wear and the mold. The apse and the altar appear empty, only a few candles are dripping wax onto an iron grating in front of a sombre statue of a Madonna. _Prega per noi._

Flint's fingers twitch, out of the corner of his eye he notes Silver already has his wand in hand, twirling it nervously between his agile fingers.

“Think that's one of them?” Silver points to the Madonna.

Flint squints. “Not unless this was a two foot tall person prior to transformation.”

Silver shrugs, “Never know.” Flint can't exactly disagree, not in their business anyways.

The city is pulsing with magic. Flint can feel it coursing through his veins, like a second hand high. The fact that Silver's cane hides a pointed dagger in its sheath is only mildly reassuring.

“Who are we meeting here again?” Silver asks as he continues to explore the chapel suspiciously.

“The note didn't say.”

“Why would they ever make this easy,” Silver grumbles. He dips his fingers into the holy water and draws the sign of the cross in the air before Flint's face. “In the name of Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos, I bless you, my child.”

“Stop playing with holy things, Silver,” Flint grouses.

“It's just canal water,” Silver states. “Trust me, I know.”

“How?” Flint asks even though he can guess. Silver and his hands are hardly ever wrong.

“Didn't burn me,” Silver replies with a grin.

“You shit.”

“You missed me.”

Flint is about to play hard to get, even though it burns him to acknowledge, if only to himself, he did miss the little shit. But the sound of heels clicking against stone alerts him to another arrival, as a tall form, clad in a long black cape and sporting the mask of the Dottore della Peste hovers in the entryway. The Plague Doctor mask's long beak nods towards Flint by way of a greeting, then lifts haughtily as it comes nose to wand with Silver's extended arm.

“Oh, bollocks,” the Plague Doctor intones.

“Let's see that pretty face before I blow it right off,” Silver snarls.

“Stand down, Silver.” Flint's hand is on Silver's elbow, pulling his arm lower.

“You stand down! I'm a hunted man!”

The Plague Doctor raises his arms slowly, palms outwards. “I'm going to remove my mask,” he says in a composed voice. “Do try not to undo all your hard work of yore, Mr. Silver.”

The man lowers his hood, exposing a shock of white hair, before raising the mask, the papier maché beak pointing upwards like a crooked unicorn's horn.

“Well shit,” Silver's arm drops.

“Hello darling,” Thomas says, one hand already wrapped around Flint's neck, pulling him into a kiss. “Can't ever leave you alone to your own devices,” he mutters softly into Flint's ear.

“This all just became five more flavors of awkward,” Silver says aside to the Madonna. “Forgive them, Signora, they mean no disrespect.”

“I thought you said he was Jewish,” Thomas whispers into Flint's rapidly reddening ear.

“So is she!” Silver bristles, thumb pointing at the Madonna.

“Mr. Silver, your tiny ears have excellent hearing,” Thomas says, letting Flint go. His eyes traverse the small chapel and suddenly, “Mandy, sit! Bad girl! Don't lick the baptismal font, it might make you sick!”

“What the fuck…” Silver draws closer to Flint.

“Sorry, boys,” Thomas says as he bends down and beckons to something invisible. “Mandibles doesn't like to make herself visible to strangers. It makes it more difficult to maul them to death, obviously.”

“Fuck?” Silver squawks. “So the rumors of you having a pet Hellhound aren't even slightly exaggerated.” He presses bodily into Flint's side, and Flint can't help but reassuringly rub his hand in circles over Silver's lower back.

“It's alright, Mr. Silver,” Thomas says, appearing to stroke empty air and give it skritches. “Just stick out your hand and let Mandy get your scent.”

“No thanks? I already lost a leg. Got no reason to want to lose the appendages I need to make a bloody living, do I?”

“How rude! Mandy would never bite daddy's friends. Would you, Mandy? That's a sweet girl!”

“Is that what we are now? Friends?” Silver asks, entirely unconvinced.

Flint sighs and lowers himself to greet Thomas’ pet. He can sense the heat of her breath on his palms even before she begins to give him friendly licks.

“It's okay, Silver, she's pretty tame. For a Hellhound.”

Silver is looking at them like a cat about to either attack or hightail the hell out.

“Trust me,” Flint adds in a low voice and stretches out his hand.

Carefully, Silver places his own hand into Flint's palm, his fingertips alight with nervous magic. Flint squeezes it gently to soothe him, as he presents their joint hands for Mandy to sniff. “Fuckadee,” Silver mutters as his eyes widen with awe, fingers already tangled in invisible fur. The hound materializes before them, her four red eyes blinking up at Silver in adoration before she flops and presents her belly.

“Mandy, you whore!” Thomas chides with a laugh.

“Perhaps she simply acknowledges an infernal presence,” Flint can't help but take the easy jibe.

But Silver clearly doesn't give a damn, petting the Hellhound and scratching her behind her forked, pointed ears. Her black fur shimmers underneath Silver's fingers, patches turning to crimson in a sign of undisguised pleasure.

“Good beast,” Silver coos, “nice little dybbuk, good little shedik.”

“He's smaller than I remember,” Thomas whispers while Flint watches Silver in disbelief. “Big hands though…”

“Thomas!” Flint tries to shush his beloved, only to find his eyes sparkling with glee. “This is… We need to be careful.”

“Don't worry, darling, Mandibles is a sensible girl and she won't let the Quorum spot her.”

“We don't even know what we're dealing with here,” Flint says. The sound of a gondolier singing a jaunty Verdi aria reminds Flint where they are.

“People becoming petrified, I believe,” Thomas says. “I forget whether literally or figuratively.” He pulls his Plague Doctor mask back down over his eyes. “Come on, then. We are expected at the Palazzo Ducale.”

Silver straightens while Mandibles circles around his legs like an amiable dragon. “Who the fuck died and left _you_ in charge?”

“Do you _really_ want me to answer that?” the Plague Doctor replies with far too much alacrity.

***

_When Lord Alfred Hamilton managed to convince the Quorum his own son had made a pact with the Devil and turned warlock, Flint raged. The world of humans had always been unjust. He had expected a lot more from the world of magical practitioners. After all, at some point, sorcerers and witches were hunted, forced to live in secret cabals, doomed to obscurity. The Quorum had been created to preserve the balance of magic, to help them coexist in harmony with the Untouched - the non-magical. He had been naive not to realize that the rich and powerful would wield as much influence in the magical world as in the realm of the Untouched. And Alfred Hamilton was a scion of a long and illustrious line of the magi._

_The only dignity Thomas had been afforded was to be executed in a magical trance, so that he would feel no pain. His so-called trial was a sham, the man who testified against him a so-called friend, and it was only due to Miranda that Flint had survived at all, because he would've followed Thomas into the flames of his pyre if he could._

_Imagine his surprise then when he awoke, after being on the very precipice of a war that may have consumed the magical and human realms alike, to find Thomas sitting calmly on his narrow cot, the picture of health and normalcy, except for his ash-white hair, staring down at him with a look of heavy disapproval._

_“How could you bring me back to a world in which Miranda is dead!” was the first thing Thomas said to him. But that was also how Flint knew right away it hadn't been a dream._

***

The hall of the Palazzo Ducale is lined with marble statues in various states of distress. Were it not for their distinctly period appropriate attire, one may have mistaken them for the works of Bernini or Cellini, perhaps even original Grecian, so finely rendered are the limbs and facial expressions.

“This one here was… is… a member of the Quorum,” their guide explains. “So is this one, and this one.” The man is a stranger, his accent Italian, his face unmemorable. His name is Baroldo, or Bertoldo, or Burratino, Flint can't be bothered to remember.

Silver keeps getting too close to the petrified victims, while Thomas keeps getting too close to Silver's ass. Flint isn't overly pleased with either one of them at the moment.

“Who's he?” Thomas points at a proud statue of a man with a ponytail and a severe mouth.

“Quorum,” Bartolomeo shrugs.

“That's Woodes Rogers!” Silver exclaims. And so it is. “By my missing leg, I'd know that slippery turd at the bottom of a latrine.”

Flint utterly fails at repressing a grimace. Not so much at the colorful imagery as at the thought of being in the same room with Rogers again, even if only as a statue.

“Ah si,” their guide smiles, “Mr. Woody Roger.” Flint does not correct him. This isn't exactly making him want to help.

Woodes Rogers was the one who had recruited Eleanor into the Quorum when Flint was still decidedly anti the entire operation. A number of rogue magicians and allied nymph-folk had perished in the battles under Rogers’ command. Eleanor had nearly perished herself, were it not for her bees, the messengers between the world of the living and the dead, who had given her warning of an impending attack.

Flint used to find Eleanor's faith in the bees fanciful and a bit new-agey, even for a witch. But now Flint shares his home with a resurrected warlock and an actual Hellhound.

“Signore Bartolo,” Thomas addresses their guide (and of course it's Bartolo, and of course Thomas of all people would remember), “Is there anything else these people have in common? Were there any theories the other practitioners followed that may have gotten them um… caught?”

“Not as far as we know,” the man says. “They were all found in different parts of the city and brought here for safekeeping.”

“It would still be useful to get a list of the places where they were originally found,” Flint says.

Barnaby hurries off to fetch the information, leaving the three magicians alone in the hall of the morbid display. Silver is so close to a statue of a woman with a parasol that Flint is afraid he’s about to lick it. Thomas is feeding Mandy treats and Flint honestly hates to imagine how his pockets are suddenly full of rats. He also prays Silver doesn’t notice. There are certain aspects of being an owner of a Hellhound that Flint finds rather embarrassing.

“Is no one going to say it?” Silver pipes up, his mop of curls peeking out from behind the voluminous rump of another statue. “Medusa? Right? I mean, if we go into the lore, there really aren’t that many legends about people being turned to stone.”

“There has always been lore about people turning to stone,” Thomas chimes in, no longer dangling a rat in mid air. “I believe there is even an Italian fairy tale where the raven warns a man about the misfortune about to befall his brother and threatens to turn him into stone should he give his brother warning.”

“I definitely noticed a lot of pigeons,” Flint muses, “but not so much as far as ravens.”

“We would’ve probably noticed a murder of crows too,” Silver says, using his cane to knock on the frozen figures. “Nothing,” he says resigned. “They don’t even talk.”

“Were you expecting them to?” Thomas asks. Now that they’re alone Flint can make out Mandibles’ form, prone at her master’s feet, fangs exposed in a toothy grin.

“I seem to recall a Jewish fairytale where the statue could still talk,” Silver says.

“I don’t think I know this one,” Flint prods.

“Why would you? You’re a gentile.” Silver gives his cane a showy twirl and leans against the statue of Woodes Rogers, which immediately comes crashing to the floor. “Shit! Shit, shit, shit.” As the three magicians rush to pull the statue upright, their joint susurration becomes more full of mirth than apprehension.

“Fuck, his arm broke off!” Flint notices, tears coming out of his eyes as he no longer even tries to confine his snort-filled laughter. This is extremely undignified behavior; fortunately everyone in his present company has seen him naked, the Hellhound included.

“Maybe just put it next to the statue for now,” Thomas suggests, also choking on bursts of laughter. “Oh my, Mr. Silver, you are most certainly what your people would call a shlemiel.”

“That would imply I’m clumsy _and_ unfortunate,” Silver points out, wiping tears from his own eyes. “I’d say it was most fortunate indeed that this was the one I knocked over! At most, I’m a schlemazel.”

“Can’t disagree there,” Flint snorts. “I cannot believe he was still working for the Quorum. You'd have thought after we had roundly embarrassed him during the marine revolts, he would’ve buried his head in the sand and stayed away from the action.”

“One never knows what the Quorum might have over you,” Thomas says, his hand pressed over Flint’s warmly.

“Look normal,” Silver whispers, as if that is a totally normal thing to say. “I think I hear Bartolo coming back.” He straightens his coat and casts the dismembered statue of Rogers a rueful look.

Mandy gives Silver’s shoe a friendly lick before disapparating and Thomas suggests, “Gentlemen, I propose we take this material and retire to our rooms to discuss. I don’t believe there is anything else to be gleaned here as of this moment.”

***

“There once was a king who had three daughters,” Silver says, “and before setting off for war, he asked each of them what they’d like for him to bring them back as a victory gift. One of them asked for a diamond as big as a star.” Silver’s fingers paint a star in the air and the ether sparkles for a moment. “The second one asked for a gown of pure gold.” This time the sparks around Silver’s fingers give off a golden sheen. “While the third simply said - Papa, I only want you to come home safe and sound.”

“I believe I’ve heard this one before. It’s called _King Lear_ ,” Thomas interrupts.

“Silence, you ignorant goy!” Silver fixes Thomas with a stern look. And then both of them are looking at Flint, their eyes silently asking for help, and Flint feels trapped. Utterly and desperately trapped. It isn’t fair of them to both look at him that way.

“Well,” Thomas says, “if you’re not making Silver apologize, that must mean I was in the wrong. My apologies, Mr. Silver, do continue.” He leans back against the wall, fingers idling in the thicket of Mandy’s fur, and Flint finally exhales.

“Where was I?” Silver begins again. “Ah yes, the third daughter. Of course, the king insisted that she ask for a real gift, touched though he was. And so the next morning the third daughter went to her father and asked for Elijah’s violin. Because an old woman came to her and told her to. I think. The old woman may have been a witch. Or a goddess? I don’t remember that part.”

“What does any of this have to do with petrification?” Thomas asks again with a yawn.

“Patience, my diabolical colleague,” Silver insists, his fingers drawing symbols in the air that Flint hopes don’t accidentally set their room on fire. “So, after the king won his war, he tried to find Elijah’s violin to bring back for his daughter, as he promised. He searched high, he searched low, but no one could tell him where this violin was to be found. At last, he was led to a cave with an old man in it…”

“Nothing’s ever gone awry from speaking to old men in caves,” Thomas mutters.

“And the old man told him that, as it happened, the king of his country had Elijah’s violin in his possession. And - now pay attention, infernal apparition - this king’s also got a daughter, and this daughter has been turned to stone.”

“Finally,” Flint whispers into the collar of his coat.

Silver continues, “The old man said that this king had promised untold riches to anyone who frees his daughter from stone. Now then, the old man took out three long hairs and handed them to the king. He said, ‘These three are strings from Elijah’s violin! And burn them you must when you are in the presence of the enchanted princess!’ So, the king thanked the cave-dweller, and went on his merry way to see this petrified damsel. Oh and by the way, it turns out the man in the cave was Elijah himself, but that’s not pertinent to this immediate story…”

“Silver!”

“What? I didn’t write it!” Silver grouses. “I’m merely trying to retell it in such a way that is relevant to the discussion at hand.”

“And I wish you would,” Thomas nods.

“Well, anyways, long story short, it turned out that the princess had been trapped by her own reflection.”

“What?” both Thomas and Flint stare at each other.

“It’s a fairytale. Sheesh. You act like you were expecting something different. And also the statue could talk, so there's that.”

“What happened when the king burned the strings in front of the princess?” Flint asks.

“Oh, right,” Silver scratches behind his ear, mimicking Mandy with laudable precision. “So he burned the strings in front of her, and the spell was broken and she wasn't a statue anymore. And then she had to break the mirror to trap her reflection, so that it wouldn't go escaping and causing shenanigans again.”

“And what’s the deal with Elijah’s violin?” Flint asks.

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s a really long fairytale,” Silver shrugs. “There’s adventure, and love, and music, and a happy ending, of course. Lovely stuff. But… We’d be here all night, wouldn’t we?”

“Far be it for me to question old Jewish wisdom,” Thomas begins, casting a careful look at Flint, “but I’m not entirely sure how we are helped by this tale in our particular situation. I looked in the mirror several times this morning, and my own reflection doesn’t seem to be up to no good. And we certainly don’t have any strings at our disposal to try burning in the Palazzo Ducale.”

“I didn’t say it would help, did I?” Silver protests. “I was just recounting a story with a girl who was turned to stone. You know, sharing the lore.”

“No, wait, hang on,” Flint rises and starts to pace. There’s something in the back of his mind that’s not quite clicking. “The violin in the story - Elijah’s violin - it’s a magical object, isn’t it?”

“It would appear so,” Silver agrees.

“If a violin has the power to break a spell in ancient lore, would it not be possible that a violin could also cast a spell? Perhaps if wielded by a powerful magician?”

“Perhaps,” Thomas says, “but we’re just grasping at straws.”

“Maybe not,” Flint says and runs downstairs into the decorated streets. He’s back a few minutes later, to find Silver and Thomas in the same spots he left them, as if petrified themselves. “I saw these all over the city,” he says, throwing a roll of paper onto the writing desk. It unfurls to reveal a drawing of a violin with the words “Paganini Il Maestro” written in large calligraphy across the top.

Silver and Thomas stare at the advertisement and then at Flint, clearly united in their opinion that he’s lost his mind.

“You don’t think that…” Silver starts.

“No!” Thomas exclaims. “Don’t tell me you think Paganini has bedeviled all these people!”

“And why not?” Flint asks. “The only thing that we know for sure all these people had in common when they were turned is that they happened to be in Venice at the same time as the Maestro.”

“And his violin,” Thomas adds thoughtfully. “ _Il Cannone Guarnerius_.”

“The what now?” Silver asks.

“It has a storied and fantastical past,” Thomas says. “Il Cannone dates back to the mid 1700’s, before Paganini was even born. If you’re going to be looking for a cursed object in Venice, it may not actually be a terrible place to start.”

***

_Flint was in the hold of a ship taking him and Thomas back to England, handed over to the Quorum after all his efforts to bring the organization down over the years. But there had only been one thing that he had cared about in that moment, on his knees, with his face buried in the curve of Thomas’ long neck, his fingers grasping at the bright white locks of Thomas’ posthumous hair._

_“I should have burned with you,” Flint confessed. “I couldn’t protect you,” he said as his tears soaked Thomas’ collar. “I couldn’t keep you safe. I’m so sorry, Thomas.”_

_“Hush, love.” His arms, his hands, his voice, his lips. Everything had been the same. And Flint simply did not know what to do about any of it. “It wasn’t your fault, darling. There was nothing you could’ve done.”_

_“I’ll do anything to keep you safe now, anything!” Flint swore as the sea softly rocked their foundations. Thomas smiled, a glint of red flashing momentarily around his pupils. “Thomas,” Flint pulled back. “Is there an unholy pact that binds you to this world now?”_

_Instead of furnishing Flint with a reply, Thomas simply sealed his lips with his own. It was that kiss that burned any and all remains of hesitation from Flint’s mind._

_Standing before the Quorum back in London, Flint made his own unholy pact. His servitude in exchange for Thomas’ safety. A life for a life. There was only one unfinished bit of business._

_“And do you know what has become of Mr. Silver?” the Magus Maximus of the Quorum asked._

_And in his heart of hearts, Flint knew exactly where to look. “Go search the tidelands of the sirens,” he may have said. “I’ll draw you a fucking map,” he may have added._

_Instead, “I have no fucking idea,” was his only sworn testimony._

***

Flint paces the streets of Venice looking for a garden patch, anything, even a damned flower pot will do. He curses the sea-locked island, and its salty air, and its pigeons and seagulls. He cannot believe after all his years of mocking Eleanor and her beekeeping magic, he now struggles to find the one thing he can use more than a Hellhound and Israel Hands following him with a musket over his shoulder (disguised by enchantment as a flag). The leprechaun was Silver’s idea, whereas Mandy’s escorting services are of course compliments of Thomas. Neither one of them was particularly thrilled at Flint heading out alone, less so when he had announced, “I need to talk to the bees.”

He feels like an idiot. There is a high statistical probability he actually is an idiot. What was he even thinking leaving Silver and Thomas alone together? They’re probably going to murder each other. Or end up in bed together. At this point, it's difficult to predict which Flint would prefer. Certainly the murder would be a far more annoying option, Flint muses, momentarily distracted. More cleanup. Probably.

“How ‘bout I just cut up this ‘ere apple,” Hands suggests, suddenly apparating at Flint’s side. “Will work as good as a summoning spell, I reckon.”

“You lazy twat, you just don’t want to keep walking around the city,” Flint complains because he sure as hell isn’t about to tell Hands he’s done something right. If time has borne out anything, it’s that Flint can hold a grudge with the best of them.

“This ain’t no Babylon, and there ain’t no hangin’ gardens,” Hands says. There is already a sliced apple in his hands and he sets it down by the stairwell of a private quay. “Present for the Queen Bee,” Hands calls out into the skies. “Come and get ‘em!”

Flint has to assume that any passersby will simply think they’re drunk, or mad, or both. The time of Carnevale is upon them, and while he doesn’t see any bloody bees, he does see several exposed breasts compliments of the masked ladies of the night (despite blinding daylight) on the bridge over their heads.

“Oy!” Hands pokes him. “It bloody worked!”

Flint tears his eyes away from a cornucopia of bosoms to find a solitary bee climbing around the apple slices. “Hello, bee,” he says, feeling increasingly moronic. “I need to send a message to your mistress, Eleanor Guthrie. If you could tell your other bee friends, I need her help. My name is James. James Flint. She’ll know. We were friends once. Anyways…”

“Tell ‘er ‘bout the voi-lin,” Hands prods.

“Shut up,” Flint hisses. The bee stares at him in furry silence and he feels entirely too judged. “We need your help in locating an object which may or may not be cursed. I’d prefer to tell Eleanor more in person. Or in projection. Whatever you can arrange. Um…” The bee is still enjoying its surprise repast, no sign either way whether the message was received, understood, or simply ignored. “Well… uh. Any time now. Off you go,” Flint tries.

“I wouldn’t shoo ‘em if I were you,” Hands says with blatant disapproval.

A soft growl by Flint’s thigh sends the bee scurrying off, Flint can only hope they didn’t just waste a perfectly ripened apple.

“Good girl, Mandy,” he whispers, petting the invisible Hellhound’s head.

***

The name of the tavern where they’re supposed to go is _L’Alveare_ , or the Beehive, and Flint isn’t at all surprised that Eleanor’s network extends to Venice, even if bees are a scarce commodity in the maritime republic.

“I can’t believe you talked to a bee,” Silver mutters as they traverse the busy streets. He has chosen a Harlequin mask for himself and a Scaramouche mask for Flint. Flint has to grudgingly admit as far as Commedia dell'Arte archetypes go, Silver has hit the nail straight on the head. “And I can’t believe a bee actually talked back!”

“Technically, Eleanor sent back a raven,” Flint points out. The streets of Venice are a grid of confusion and brackish canal water. “This way,” he nods towards a cluster of shops and eateries facing a nearby piazetta. One of the storefronts is emblazoned with a sign of a golden bee. Looks as if they have arrived.

Thomas holds the door open gallantly, his Plague Doctor mask all but pecking Flint and Silver as they shuffle past him into the dimly lit room of what may indeed be an actual tavern. The bar appears well stocked, carafes filled with brightly colored liquid that reflects back the candlelight playfully. The sounds of someone playing the Carnival of Venice on the violin makes the three magicians momentarily freeze. Flint's breath halts, his heart speeds up, until...

“I’m not stone yet,” Silver whispers.

“But are you hard as a rock?” Thomas inquires and Flint doesn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

“A mage, a sorcerer, and a warlock walk into my bar,” says a woman behind the counter. “Have you heard this one before?” Her blond hair is covered by a deep hood, a pearl necklace with a bee pendant dangles over her tightly laced bodice.

Flint approaches the bar, his Scaramouche mask pushed up onto his forehead. “Eleanor, it’s good to see you after all this time.”

“You’re supposed to say ‘What’s the fucking difference?’” the projection of Eleanor Guthrie speaks, hood lowered to reveal her laughing eyes.

There was a time when Flint would have wholeheartedly agreed. He hated labels, hated them as much when they were applied to magical practitioners as to the Untouched. What made him a sorcerer was that he had studied the magical arts and needed spells and incantations to help him in his craft. What made Silver a mage was that he had been born with inherent magical abilities. What made Thomas a warlock was nothing that Flint liked to think about.

“You’re looking well, Ms. Guthrie,” Silver grins and tips his fingers to his tricorn hat that he’s donned for the occasion. “Running a school of your own now, are you? If Miss Ashe is any indication.”

“Not entirely of my own, Mr. Silver,” Eleanor replies cryptically. “Captain Flint, welcome,” she nods towards her old mentor. “And you must be the infamous Dark Lord Thomas Hamilton?”

“What gave me away?” The Plague Doctor folds himself into a reverential bow. “Greetings to the Queen of the Beehive. May your messengers always pass freely through this world and the next.”

“They pass as freely as yourself,” Eleanor smiles. “Now, Captain, my bees tell me you’re looking for a magical object? Possibly cursed?”

“Something in the city is turning people to stone,” Flint explains.

“One of those people is Woodes Rogers,” Silver adds with a sly glimmer in his eyes. Eleanor’s expression is unreadable. “I may have accidentally knocked his statue over and broken off his arm,” Silver continues.

“Silver, what the fuck,” Flint hisses into his former partner’s ear.

Eleanor’s look suddenly softens. “Mr. Silver, you’ve always been a bit of a rascal. It is quite nostalgic, isn’t it, seeing the two of you back together as partners.”

“We’re not…”

“It’s not…”

They both stammer out simultaneously. Thomas’ enormous beak simply shakes back and forth in shrouded scorn.

“It’s not?” Eleanor laughs. “You’re not? Well, a thousand pardons then, I was fucking mistaken. What is it that you want me to find for you then?”

“A violin,” Silver blurts out.

“Not any violin,” Thomas steps forward. “Il Cannone Guarnerius. The violin of the Maestro Paganini.”

“Ah, I see,” Eleanor nods. “A man rumored to be quite the adherent of Satan himself. Do you know him, Lord Hamilton?”

“I haven’t had the pleasure,” Thomas replies rather lugubriously. It occurs to Flint that despite them all being in mortal peril, Thomas is having the time of his life.

“If we are right,” Flint continues, “and the violin is what’s causing people to turn to stone, it isn’t safe for any of us to come within earshot of it without certain precautions in place.”

“You want my minions to locate the violin and separate it from its owner?” Eleanor asks.

“That would be best,” Flint nods.

“And you don’t think the sight of a world renowned violinist being chased through the streets of Venice by a swarm of bees would draw some attention to your affair?”

“No more than the aforementioned violinist turning people to stone!” Silver points out.

“We just need some time to examine Il Cannone to see whether it’s the source of the curse,” Thomas explains.

“And destroy it,” Flint adds.

“Well now,” Thomas holds up a finger.

“Thomas! How many times do I have to tell you - we do not take cursed objects home!”

“You cannot just _destroy_ Il Cannone, James! It’s a masterpiece! Cursed or not, one does not simply set fire to the Sistine Chapel, does one?”

“I don’t care whether you set fire to it or make sweet love to it,” Eleanor interrupts. “I only want you to promise me one thing in exchange for my aid.” She beckons Silver closer and whispers something into his ear that Flint cannot overhear no matter how much he tries.

“Deal,” Silver says and sticks out his palm.

“I’d shake your hand, Mr. Silver,” Eleanor says with a coy smile, “but regrettably, I’m not actually here.” A sound of soft buzzing fills the room. “I hear Max calling me. So long, Captain! Fare you well, Dark Lord!” And Eleanor disappears from behind the bar, leaving behind only the echo of a buzzing beehive.

***

Israel Hands, upon their arrival in the port of Venice, had somehow managed to find them lodgings in a guest house overlooking the Bridge of Sighs, and nothing will convince Flint the little imp isn’t enjoying himself tremendously at their expense. Silver’s associate, ever the faithful dogsbody, these days is only too pleased to leave Silver’s side, casting glances in Flint’s direction that are a far cry from the days of the marine revolts. There was a time Flint was certain Hands would bite his head off if only to protect Silver and curry his favor. Now, he’s downright… courteous. It’s unnerving.

Flint looks out the window upon the Bridge of Sighs and sighs like the butt of his own jokes. Behind him, Silver and Thomas are playing chess. They’ve already held conference on the utility of Golems, traded recipes for conjuring the spirits of their departed enemies (to torture them), and exchanged a few really indelicate tid-bits pertaining to their favorite sexual positions. Flint is determined to ignore all that, whatever all that is. The budding friendship between his former lover and his once-deceased-but-hence-returned lover is just another complication on a road paved with tribulations that Flint doesn’t wish to currently contemplate. He’s still not sure what else they might have gotten up to, behind his back, and honestly nothing would surprise him from either one of his men.

_His men_. Flint bites his lip and chews his upper mustache. It’s all been far too easy, the way Silver just insinuated himself back into his life, as if he’d never been gone. As if the betrayal and confusion had all been just a terrible dream Flint had dreamt after a night of dipping too heavily into some ale. When Flint closes his eyes, he can conjure Silver up too easily. The scent of the oil he uses to groom his untameable curls, the way his hands feel against Flint’s skin, always too hot and too possessive, the way his mouth feels dragging along Flint’s cock, how hungry Silver had always been to devour him when given the chance. Flint shudders, his eyes fly open and fix on the dark canal waters, his breeches uncomfortably tight from the intrusive remembrance.

When they had been in Ljubljana together, Flint could almost forget. Almost. There was a moment of intimacy, which may have flourished had it been allowed to take root. But somehow, the moment got lost in the snowstorm, swept up in the whirlwind that now held them all prisoner in Venice, and under the Quorum’s watchful eye. If they succeed here, what then? Will Silver disappear into thin air again? Does he still feel the call of the tidelands of the Caribbean? Or could it be that, much like Mandibles the Hellhound, Silver might turn out to be someone they could keep?

The sound of an accordion picks up the melody of the Carnival of Venice, chasing peels of laughter as masked revelers spill across the bridges, bodies pressing together in covered gondolas, seeking momentary pleasure along the canals. It is some kind of a giant cosmic joke, Flint thinks, that they are all together like this, in one of the most romantic cities of Europe.

A raven lands on the windowsill next to Flint and fixes him with a stare before opening its beak and letting out a ponderous squawk.

“New message from the Quorum?” Thomas asks, suppressing a yawn.

Flint unwraps the small note that had been tied to the bird’s claw. “Another statue was just found over by La Fenice,” Flint announces.

“Someone had a bad night at the Opera,” Silver says, rising from his seat to walk over to where Flint’s still trying to become one with the drapes.

“We should get some rest,” Flint says. “Nothing else to be done tonight.”

Silver’s eyes shine like sapphires lit up by the lanterns. “I suppose you’re right. I better turn in.” He shifts carefully, exhaustion evident in his limbs, and Flint wants to reach out and touch him, to offer support. “Good night, your darkship,” Silver says to Thomas as he turns towards the door leading to the adjacent room where Hands is likely already dreaming his second dreams of the night.

“Good night, my resurrection and my light,” Thomas calls back cheerfully.

The room appears to grow cold with Silver’s exit, but then Thomas’ long arms are around Flint, and he’s cocooned again, lost to the familiar warmth of his lover’s strong embrace.

***

They’re combing through the manuscripts in one of the Quorum libraries hidden out of sight beneath the sign of the Lion of St. Mark. Silver and Thomas have already used every counter-spell at their disposal to try to revert the statues to their human form, but to no avail. Flint isn’t usually one for “I told you so” but he _did_ and they patently ignored him. As if it wasn’t glaringly obvious that anything or anyone that had the power to curse on such a magnitude would not be unhexed with a few intricate wavings of one’s wand (and agile fingers).

“Shoo,” Silver says, waving at something in front of his face. Flint’s ears perk up, picking up the soft yet insistent buzzing. “God damn it, bugger off!” Silver flails.

“Silver, you dolt, it’s a bee!” Flint exclaims.

“I can see it’s a bloody bee, that’s why I’m trying to make it leave me alone! Pestering pollinator!” Silver whines.

“No… I…. you… Uh.” Flint doesn’t understand how someone as clever as Silver can be such an idiot sometimes.

“What my beloved is trying to say,” Thomas cuts in, his wand extending towards the bee to allow it safe landing, “is that this is the messenger we’ve been waiting for. Do excuse our younger associate, brave messenger. He was raised by wolves and pirates.”

The bee wiggles its furry rump and hovers in the air again. “I say we follow it,” Flint grabs his own wand and his low-rise top hat, heading for the door.

“We did ask for their help,” Thomas nods.

“You’re… seriously?” Flint hears Silver’s resigned mumbling as everyone files behind him and heads outside.

Here’s the thing about bees: they’re not reindeer. Which is a fact that Flint greatly laments. A reindeer would’ve been much easier to follow because a reindeer would’ve been a lot easier to _see_. Flint has to stop several times (causing an embarrassing domino effect of Silver crashing into his ass followed by Thomas crashing into… well…), attempting to spot their insect guide before deciding which dark alley it is they are meant to run down. The entire journey, if you could call it that, is utterly undignified. But at long last, they seem to have arrived, because Flint's ears pick up a blood curdling scream.

Behind him, Thomas and Silver have their wands out. In fact, Silver also has his cane unsheathed, the steel of his dagger glinting in the shadows.

“I take it we’ve arrived?” Thomas says.

The screams are getting shriller and closer. Pretty soon, the source of the screams becomes visible, apparating in a buzzing cloud while he propels his flailing body down the street and throws himself into the canal, still pursued by bees.

“Feeding Signore Paganini to the fishes was _not_ part of the plan,” Thomas intones with disapproval.

“Hurry up and get the violin!” Flint shouts, pointing at the window left ajar on the upper level of the palazzo from which the unfortunate man just got chased by an inexplicable swarm.

Thomas grins, his long black cape spreading behind him like wings, before lifting off the ground and flying smoothly through the opening in the windowpane.

“He can _fly_?” Silver exclaims. “Now, how am I supposed to compete with that!”

“What?” Flint doesn’t want to contemplate such an ejaculation. “Just… watch Paganini, make sure he doesn’t drown or come back to the house.” Before Silver can protest, Flint’s in through the palazzo door and running up the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Thomas!” he calls.

“In here,” echoes his lover’s voice.

“Thomas, don’t you dare try and play that thing!”

“How stupid do you think I am?” Thomas apparates, the wings of his cape folded behind him. The violin in his gloved hands is held out almost like a shield. “I found Il Cannone.”

“Good,” Flint exhales. “Now let’s get it the Hades out of here before the owner comes back.”

“He’ll raise quite the ruckus,” Thomas strokes his chin pensively. “The guards will be summoned and we need time to get this to safety.”

“What do you suggest?”

Thomas plucks a flower from a nearby vase and whispers a few words to it. “A simple illusionment spell should hold him at bay for now.” The flower in his hands transforms into an exact replica of the violin.

From the outside, the sound of Silver singing an old mariner’s song is a clear enough signal for them to flee. A thousand curses in the most fluent Italian reach their ears from the vestibule as the Maestro returns, and Thomas grabs Flint’s hand, rushing them both back up the stairs. Flint thinks that it’s certainly a stroke of justice that while Thomas escapes like a bat out the open window with the violin, he in turn has to resort to throwing himself below into the cold waters of the murky canal.

***

Israel Hands runs into the great hall of the Palazzo Ducale, panting with exhaustion.

“I came as soon as I could!” he coughs.

“Yes, thank you, Iz,” Silver sneers. “But I believe we three have it well at hand.” He points to Il Cannone Guarnerius, propped up on a small table that has been set up in the center of the room over the pentagram with protective glyphs that now encircle Flint and his two accomplices. “What exactly are you here to do?”

“I’m here to solve the mystery!” Hands grins crookedly. “The mystery of how ye three haven’t strangled each other yet. Oy.”

“We were made for cooperation,” Thomas intones somberly and Flint snorts. It’s been some time since he’s heard his lover quote Marcus Aurelius, but it’s refreshing to know that despite the white hair and the Hellhound and the inexplicable ability to fly, deep down he’s the same old Thomas: a giant nerd.

“Not for nuthin,” Hands shrugs, “but if ye blow yerselves to smithereens trying to uncurse that bloody fiddle, someone will have to clean up yer bits.”

“You’re practically a martyr,” Silver says with an eye roll. “Well then, gentlemen? Shall we test our subject?”

The mage, the sorcerer, and the warlock take out their wands and point them right at the heart of the instrument. “Revelare malum!” they each speak and the violin shakes, the strings begin to vibrate, and a cacophony of notes pours forth even without the bow stroking its strings.

“Shit!” Silver lowers his wand. “Well, it’s cursed all right.”

“Good thing we were all standing inside the circle,” Flint nods before he uneasily turns his head to look behind him, expecting to see a fully petrified figure of Hands. Instead he finds the leprechaun with his fingers in his ears and his eyes closed, crouching in the corner.

“Iz has always been smarter than he looks,” Silver explains with a shrug.

“We won’t be able to do anything until we find a way to unspell this thing,” Thomas says with a sigh, bracing his hands against the small table. “I am hoping with our combined powers we might have enough juice, so to speak.”

“Oh, there’s plenty of juice betwixt ya to go around,” Hands chimes in from behind him.

“If you’re only going to be a pest…” Silver starts.

“And how!” Hands adds.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Silver completes his thought.

“Fine, I’ll stand guard,” Hands delivers with much impudence before finally taking his leave.

“Why do you keep him around, again?” Flint asks.

“He’s loyal,” Silver states defensively, much to Thomas’ apparent amusement.

“Oh, oh, _loyalty_ , yes a quality I’m sure you need an external supply of.”

Silver bares his teeth at Thomas, as if part Hellhound himself. “Wouldn’t bite the hand that resurrected you, your darkship,” he snarls.

“A resurrection out of the goodness of your heart solely, I’m certain,” Thomas presses.

“You ungrateful ass!”

“You halfling thief!”

And now Flint finds himself thrown in between the two of them, lest it actually comes to blows. “Hey, hey now! Just take it down a notch or two, both of you.”

Mandy is barking in the corner, her four eyes glowing with ember flames, and Flint is really not sure which one of them she’s actually angry at.

“Out of the circle!” Flint commands, and bodily pushes both Silver and Thomas away from the glyphs painted onto the floor.

Silver falters, the illusionment that keeps his peg leg hidden from sight no longer holds as he collapses into Flint’s arms and they both sink to the floor, Thomas hovering above them like a nervous moth. “Oh dear, oh dear. John, sweetheart, are you alright?”

“Revelare malum,” Flint sighs.

“What?” Thomas and Silver both ask.

“It’s the spell,” Flint explains. “The violin seems to have repelled it upon the three of us. It’s a command to reveal evil, or reveal what’s bad, and it looks like it’s revealed the worst in us whilst we stood in that circle.”

“If that’s true,” Silver says, gathering his strength enough to sit up, “that thing is much more powerful than we thought.”

“If there was ever any thought of not destroying it,” Flint pauses, looking at Thomas’ ashen face. “I’m sorry, Thomas, I know you think it’s a masterpiece...”

“No, no,” Thomas shakes his head. “The only thing this means is that the three of us, even together, are not strong enough to break this spell. But someone else out there must be. Someone whose powers are stronger than those of the warlock or demon who bewitched this instrument.”

“Can you be more specific?” Silver asks, all signs of the trouble between him and Thomas forgotten.

“A goddess,” Thomas says. “Know anyone like that?”

“Oh… boy,” Flint says, hanging his head while Silver’s eyes widen.

“You want me to summon Madi?”

“Why?” Thomas asks. “Would it be awkward?”

***

Looking over the side of Ponte della Paglia, where the canal opens up into the lagoon, Silver is trying to put his past relationship into a historical context for Thomas, while Flint throws leftover bread crumbs to the ravening seagulls.

“She’s the daughter of Oceanus and Mami Wata,” Silver explains.

“Yeah, a siren,” Flint chimes in.

“A nymph,” Silver corrects. “A naiad, if you will, to use a term you’re doubtlessly familiar with. They are water deities.”

“Let me see if I've got a handle on this,” Thomas says. “So, you threw over the entire uprising because… you were fucking a mermaid?”

“Not a bloody mermaid!” Silver bristles. “Mermaids have a fish tail. Madi has legs and a really nice… um… anyways…”

“She’s a siren,” Flint insists. “The creatures that hang out on the rocks naked, luring seamen to their death, sometimes with symmetrical starfish suckling on their nipples.”

“Kinky,” Thomas mutters.

A gaggle of laughing, young courtesans stream by them, not entirely different from the description Flint just graced Madi with, only _sans_ starfish. They must be the only three men in the city currently entirely uninterested in sex, Flint muses. At least he’s not. He’s definitely _not_ interested. In any sex. With anyone. He just wants to complete this ridiculous assignment so that he can take Thomas back to Cornwall, where he will be safely stashed away again and no one can see him flying or breathing fire or feeding visible rats to invisible Hellhounds.

The Quorum had been attempting to bring anything magical within its purview during the marine revolts. Logically, had they discovered the presence of Madi’s people, the Quorum would have attempted to bring them under its rule. It had been natural then that at some point the sirens had joined the rebellion on Flint’s side, to keep the encroaching tide of so-called civilization at bay. Madi had been Flint’s staunch and most faithful supporter. It was a pity that they had so much in common, in the end, including their love for one perfidious boy.

“Anyways, the problem is, we didn’t exactly part on great terms,” Silver continues to explain. “When I sabotaged the uprising, I betrayed Madi as well. Even though I did what I did to keep her and her people safe from harm. With the marine revolts put down, the nymphs were no longer in danger of discovery, and they could simply return to their natural state.”

“... of being mermaids,” Thomas concludes.

“Do you even listen to anything I say?” Silver huffs.

“With rapt attention, my darling! But how is your aquatic ex-lover going to get here in time to help? You said her tidelands are in the Caribbean. We’re squarely in the middle of Europe.”

“You didn’t even blink when Eleanor Guthrie materialized in a cloud of bees, and she’s just a witch. You think a nymph won’t be able to rise out of the water when summoned?” Silver raises an eyebrow.

“Aye, she might rise,” Flint cuts in, “but she’d just as soon kill you as look at you. Even if Madi had enough divine powers to uncurse that violin, what makes you think she _would_?”

“I _don’t_ think she would!” Silver joins. “Doesn’t anyone listen to anything I say? I just said precisely that: we didn’t part on good terms.”

“And what,” Thomas wonders, “was it that made her finally cast you out? The vile treachery notwithstanding.”

“That’s not enough?” Flint asks.

“Well, it wouldn’t be for me,” Thomas admits. “You are terribly pretty, John, and I would definitely forgive you for a touch of the old… backstabbing.”

“He really is your better half,” Silver snarks, fixing Flint with a stare. Flint is impervious to his stares. He is completely and utterly unmoved by all things Silver. No, siree. “Well, Thomas,” Silver turns away, “she accused me of murdering Captain Flint here, and no matter how many times I told her that in fact not only did I not murder him, I also brought _you_ back from the dead for him, she didn’t believe me. Guess she’s not the forgiving kind, unlike yourself.”

“Well, why didn’t you just say so? We can allay her fears all in one fell swoop!” Thomas opens his arms and brings both Silver and Flint under the wings of his long, black cape. “Summon your goddess, Mr. Silver. I’m sure she’ll be right chuffed to see old James here, alive and well.”

As Silver cuts his palm, they watch the rivulets of blood spiral in the waters of the canal, washed out towards the blues of the lagoon. The incantation is barely audible, but Flint recognizes the language of Madi’s people, the closed vowels, the soft consonants, like susurrating warm currents where Mami Wata’s daughters play. The sea swells before them, a single note humming over the placid waters, and Flint sways towards it, almost following the trickle of Silver’s blood over the bridge. The siren’s call is beautiful and deadly like the sea itself. Ah, how he’s missed the call of the sea!

When the waters part and the goddess rises from the placid lagoon, Thomas tears his cape from his shoulders and holds it out towards the beautiful woman like a luxurious bath towel.

“Why didn’t anyone warn me she’d be so naked?” Thomas says, kneeling in homage along with Silver and Flint.

“Because, once again,” Silver sighs, “you never fucking listen!”

***

They have to take Madi back to their quarters until a suitable dress can be found. Hands is dispatched on an errand, while Madi drips onto the upholstery, wearing Thomas’ cape like a wet toga. She shivers, Caribbean-forged skin unaccustomed to the wintery Venetian air.

“Captain!” Madi’s smile is all pearls and sunshine. “I am so pleased!” she says, barely minding the other two men in the room. “I never thought to speak with you again in this world.” And Flint feels, gods help him, actually _shy_. “I regretted that I never had the chance to teach you a way to summon me, as I have taught… another. I also regretted I had no way to summon _you_. For had I those means, I suspect a lot of worry might have been forestalled.”

“I told you I didn’t kill him,” Silver mumbles under his breath.

“Did someone speak?” Madi asks and Flint once again remembers why he liked her so much when they had been allies. It’s refreshing to know he’s not the only creature on the planet with an elephant’s memory and a knack for holding grudges.

“It is good to see you, Madi,” Flint finally manages. “I’m glad to find you well. Though, I regret that we were forced to summon you into these cold waters. Believe me, had we another choice, we would have taken it.”

“Captain,” Madi smiles. “Tell me, why is it that I find you in the company of these… strange men? And a very odd dog with four red eyes?”

“How rude of me,” Flint blushes. “This is…. Allow me to introduce Lord Thomas Hamilton. We are… Partners.” He adds, “The dog is our pet Hellhound, Mandibles.”

“But if that is true,” Madi says, “I see no reason why you should call me here. A mage powerful enough to resurrect the dead is surely powerful enough to take care of… whatever it is you need taking care of.”

Flint is amused by the way she’s insisting on referring to Silver without actually speaking directly to or about him. Hell hath no fury like a goddess betrayed.

“It would appear even with the combined powers of all three of us, we are no match for the object we’ve encountered,” Flint explains. “We suspect the curse on it might be demonic in origin, and only a divine hand may be able to remove it. Will you try?”

“In honor of our old friendship, Captain, I will try,” Madi nods. Her beautiful head swivels towards Thomas to admire him with the shameless look of a connoisseur. “And you, my Lord Hamilton, are looking remarkably well for someone resurrected with dark magic. I trust the man responsible for this didn’t leave you under the yoke of a demonic pact?”

“Fuck’s sakes,” Silver sighs, “I’m right fucking here, Madi! How long are you going to pretend not to see me?”

“My lady,” Thomas replies, ignoring Silver’s outburst, “the demonic pact is the source of all my current power. I must admit, I do not regret it, despite what the Quorum holds forth on the subject of demonology. In Hell as it is in Heaven, not all creatures are created equal. Some demons might be foul and full of trickery, but do recall that Lucifer himself was an angel once.”

“Not all demons?” Madi quirks an eyebrow. “Fascinating sophistry, my dear Lord Hamilton.” She throws her head back and laughs, her long braids swaying, seashells in her hair clinking together like wind chimes.

“Well, I’m glad everyone is having such a great time,” Silver mutters.

“Did I just hear something?” Madi asks Flint.

Before Silver has a chance for another outburst, Hands returns with both arms full of brightly colored gowns. “I didn’t know which one ladyship would like best, so I sto… procured a number.”

Madi rises with a smile on her face. “Captain,” she nods towards Flint, “I truly am so thankful to see you alive and well.” Her gaze finally alights upon Silver’s frustrated face. “I will need someone to help me into these bodices. I recall European attire isn’t well suited for adorning oneself alone.” She pauses while Silver watches her with bated breath. “Will you assist me, Mr. Silver?”

***

Carnevale overflows from every palazzo into every piazza and nook and cranny of Venice. Despite the rumors of mysterious disappearances and the apparent theft of a priceless musical instrument (discovered easily enough once the Maestro attempted to play Thomas’ decoy), the revelers are not to be kept from their festivities. It is the final night, the big night, one very Fat Tuesday indeed, and with the moon’s glowing face up in the heavens like a mistress presiding over her feast, Venice dances the night away.

A small group of cloaked, masked men and their Columbina in her glittering red gown slip silently across Piazza San Marco towards the Palazzo Ducale, where the mysterious instrument lies in state surrounded by a petrified honor guard.

Flint’s wand is ever at the ready. Paganini had been disarmed for the time being, but there really is no telling whether the man might be a dark warlock himself or an innocent bystander playing the Devil’s fiddle. Madi’s white Columbina mask pales against her skin like the moon in the skies, and the nymph laughs, one gloved hand resting in the crook of Silver’s elbow. Whatever it was that they had discussed while Silver played pageboy to the goddess, seems to have led to some kind of a truce that neither mage nor nymph care to address. Silver must have just whispered something very amusing into her ear. Flint wonders what that might be like, to be allowed to promenade through the streets of Venice arm in arm with John Silver. Even masked this way, he cannot imagine it without a pang of regret shooting through his heart and a flush coloring his cheekbones.

_Lying on the warm sands of Madi’s island, naked except for the rays of the sun upon their skin, Flint pulled Silver closer into his arms and pressed their mouths together. It still felt new and tentative, each kiss a question, each touch an exploration. Silver’s eyes were the color of the sea and his skin was hot like cinders where it pressed gloriously against Flint’s willing flesh._

_“I’ve never felt this before,” Silver whispered._

_“This?”_

_“I’ve never been touched this way,” Silver said, rubbing up against Flint like a cat in heat. “I’ve never wanted to touch back like this. With love. You make me feel…”_

_“What do I make you feel, sweet boy?”_

_“You make me feel like I deserve to be here. In your arms. With you touching me like this. Like you want me. Like you want to make me feel good.”_

_Flint swallowed around a wave of grief that threatened to choke him. “You do deserve it, Silver. There’s no other place I’d rather be than here with you,” he confessed. “I never thought I’d feel like this… again.”_

_“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” said Silver with a sudden burst of conviction, propped up on one arm and staring down into Flint’s eyes with brilliant intensity. “Nothing, do you understand? I would do anything to keep you safe.”_

_Flint reached up to brush a cascade of dark curls out of Silver’s face. His hand rested on the by now familiar curve of his cheek. “Beautiful boy,” he whispered with awe. “So beautiful. And mine.”_

_Silver's kisses were warm and gentle, like the rays of the setting sun. And Flint allowed himself to forget his grief and his rage, only to be allowed to bask in those stolen moments, those touches that grew less tentative with each iteration._

_He should have known then that he could never hold onto someone like Silver. He was like the sun: impossible to live without, impossible to hold._

“Let us bring this farce to a proper resolution then,” Madi says, lifting her Columbina mask as she steps into the protective circle. “My friends, if you would close your ears, I shall interrogate this instrument.”

Flint and Silver obey without a word. Thomas follows after a moment of hesitation. Hands once again plays guard outside the doors. This night of all nights it would not do to have their work interrupted by a throng of masked and drunken Untouched.

A ray of silver light streams off Madi’s fingers, descending onto the violin, the strings light up one by one, and soon the whole instrument is aglow with celestial light. An invisible wave courses through the room, and when Flint opens his eyes again, Madi is standing in front of him, holding the violin with her bare hands.

“The spell is broken,” she says. “You may return this to its rightful owner.”

“But are you certain he’s not…?” Thomas begins, taking the violin from Madi and stroking the wood lovingly.

“The one who cursed it?” Madi laughs. “Yes, I’m certain. I have interrogated this instrument and it has told me its secrets. The man who plays it is gifted without a doubt. But his gifts are not of demonic provenience. Despite what the rumors might say.”

“And what about…?” Flint’s eyes shift towards the statues.

“Now that the spell is broken, they should return to their human forms at the stroke of midnight,” Madi says.

Flint checks his pocket watch. “That’s in less than two minutes. Well timed.”

“Wait!” Silver exclaims, hobbling as fast as his gait allows across the hall towards the statue of Woodes Rogers.

“What the hell are you doing?” Flint shouts after him.

“I promised Miss Guthrie!” Silver shouts back. The severed arm lies at the foot of the statue, and for a moment Flint thinks Silver is going to reattach it to the petrified shoulder. Instead, Silver picks the appendage up and throws it through the window. It lands with a soft plop in the lagoon waters below the Palazzo.

“Mistress Guthrie exacts a heavy price for her services,” Thomas says with a deadpan expression on his face. Flint kisses him because it’s all he can do to keep himself from laughing with peevish glee.

The bells of the Campanile begin to toll, announcing the end of Carnevale and the beginning of Lent, and one by one the statues begin to blush with color, a rustle of fabrics begins to sweep the floor, a soft chorus of confused gasps and sighs, and one cry of shrieking horror as a man discovers he no longer has an arm.

“Let’s get out of here before anyone actually notices us,” Silver suggests as Madi’s arm entwines again with his own.

“At the end of the day,” Thomas says as they descend the stairs, Hands bringing up the rear of their cavalcade while he feeds Mandy pieces of bologna, “this entire adventure has left me feeling rather useless. All of the infernal powers at my service, and I couldn’t even disarm a violin. Not to mention, we had a genius chased by bees through the streets of Venice. If anyone in Hell or back in London finds out, it will lead to a world of embarrassment.”

“All told, not our finest hour,” Flint concedes.

“Yer all bloody daft,” Hands interrupts as the small group huddles together to let a throng of singing revelers walk past. “Take a moment to smell the pigeon shit. Cos we was knee deep in it. Who woulda thought all of us could be in the same room together and not slit each other’s throats? Nevermind actually saving all those unlucky souls back there from dark enchantment. This is the best night of all yer damn lives!”

“I’ve had better,” Silver shrugs with his habitual insouciance.

Madi inclines her head, the white mask now dangling from one of her fingers. “Mr. Hands might have a point. And while it has been terribly delightful to see you all, it is best that I now depart. Before your Quorum begins to ask too many questions about the hows and whys of spellcasting.”

“Thank you, Madi,” Silver says, hands resting on the curve of her lower back, and Flint suspects he’s got more to thank her for than just a bit of nymph magic. She presses a closed-mouth kiss to Silver's full lips, and Flint has to look away, if only to spare himself the painful memories.

Madi dives over the balustrade of the bridge before Flint can say anything else. Her red dress, now free of its occupant, flows languidly down the darkness of the canal. He suspects it may not be the only dress going on a solo swim in the moonlight that night. Perhaps eventually it will find its way back to its rightful owner.

***

Flint should probably not be surprised to find Abigail Ashe standing at their threshold the next morning, but he didn’t have a very good night’s sleep, and now his hot cocoa is getting cold and, well, he just really hoped to be allowed one god damn morning of peace without any of the Quorum’s agents darkening his doorway. Even if they are as young and charming as Miss Ashe.

“Please come in,” Flint steps aside, motioning the young woman into their guest house. He might be bereft of rest but he's certainly not bereft of manners.

“I will not take much of your time, Captain,” the Quorum’s young agent says. “I merely wanted to thank you and your team for the services rendered here in Venice. It was a most peculiar case, and you handled it with your habitual aplomb. Mr. Rogers’ unfortunate amputation notwithstanding.”

“Yeah, about that…” Flint starts.

“I think we can all agree that one man's arm is a small price to pay for the wellbeing of so many,” Abigail says with a sly grin.

“An unavoidable sacrifice,” Flint nods.

“I also brought this for Mr. Silver,” she hands Flint a roll of parchment. “It is an official pardon for his past misdeeds signed by the Magus Maximus. With the Quorum’s gratitude for his aid.”

Flint twirls the parchment nervously in his fingers. “Anything else we can do for you, Miss Ashe? Or… the Quorum?”

“Will you return to Cornwall, Captain?” Abigail asks.

“Probably,” Flint says carefully. “Why do you ask?”

“It’s just that,” she speaks slowly, her eyes intently on Flint’s, “I know you feel… restricted in some regards… that you have concerns… about the safety of those close to you. And I want you to know, Captain, that you still have many friends at the Quorum. Mage, sorcerer, warlock… there are many of us who no longer believe in such labels.”

It would appear that someone at the Quorum is giving him a long leash, Flint muses.

“I appreciate that, Miss Ashe,” he says with a curt nod. “Thank you again for coming.”

“You’ll know how to reach me should you ever need anything?” she smiles as she turns to leave. Flint raises a quizzical eyebrow. “Why, tell the bees, of course.”

“Right,” Flint mutters. “The bees.”

***

“Well, here are your freedom papers,” Flint says, carelessly tossing the pardon into Silver’s lap, watching fingerless gloves move quickly to unwrap the parchment, the sapphire eyes sparkling with delight as Silver peruses the missive.

“I think I’ll take Mandy for walkies,” Thomas says, rising.

“Great idea, walkies, me too.” Hands leaps to his feet, grabs his hat, and is out the door before anyone can say a word.

And suddenly, for the first time in what feels like eons, they are alone again, and Flint finds himself staring at the old tapestries with deer hunting scenes on the stone walls of their guest house, fiddling with his rings.

“I suppose… uh… you’ll be…” Flint clears his throat. “Well, now that you’re… Ahem.”

“I can’t believe I’m no longer a hunted man,” Silver still stares at the parchment in disbelief. “I mean, I know Abigail said… But this whole trip… And then Madi…”

“Right,” Flint echoes, “Madi… I imagine you’ll wish to…” He used to be so much better at articulating thoughts and ideas, he laments.

“It’s been…” It appears the aphasic affliction has spread to Silver as well.

“Abigail called us a team just now,” Flint says all of a sudden. “‘Your team’ she said. And I didn’t correct her. It felt right.”

“Well, we _did_ make a good team,” Silver smiles up at him from the sofa. “And a very handsome one at that. I must confess, I rather enjoy your Dark Lord Thomas.”

“Mmm, yes, I’ve noticed he shares your enjoyment,” Flint snickers to himself. “Ah, hell, Silver! I’m tired of everything constantly going tits up for us! Don’t we deserve a fucking break?”

“What do you mean?” Silver rises. “Everything worked out fine. I’m off the hook, you’re off the hook, the hook is no longer our home.”

“Maybe I don’t want to be off the hook, have you ever considered _that_?” Flint’s breath is heavy and hot within his ribcage and he feels a bit like a dragon about to exhale fire. And it terrifies him because he doesn’t want to burn the foundations they’re standing on that took so long to build. “I never wanted to be free of you,” he says, quietly, because it chokes him to speak those words aloud. “I know you gave me a choice, and I could have chosen you instead of the war. I chose wrong, so you took my choice away from me, and in the end I lost the war _and_ you.”

“But you got Thomas back.”

“And I’m grateful for it. Truly. I know I never said…”

Silver is almost smiling. Except he’s also almost crying. And all Flint wants is to go to him and put his arms around him and…

“I loved you so fucking much once, Silver. It’s not a wound that you can just medicate with another man. I loved you both. I still do.” He exhales. “I suppose that makes me a great old fool.”

And now Silver is stepping into his personal space, sucking the air out of the room as only he can when he’s close to Flint. “But you’re _my_ great old fool, aren’t you, Captain?”

“If you wanted me to be,” Flint says meekly.

Silver’s smile is an entire half moon lighting up his face, crow’s feet folding into laugh lines around his bright eyes. “Took you long enough,” Silver says. And then his fingers are carding through the strands of Flint’s hair, those magical fingertips sending jolts of warm energy through Flint’s sensitive skin. He kisses Silver. He kisses him the way he kissed him underneath the Caribbean sun, with a mouth full of sweetness, and heart full of hope, and a head full of dreams.

Perhaps they’re just in each other’s thrall. Perhaps it’s simply the magic of Venice. They’ll have to go away together to truly find out, to see if they can still fit together like they used to, to see what kind of a mosaic the three of them can assemble together, what kind of a tapestry can a mage, a sorcerer, and a warlock weave.

“Don’t leave me,” Flint whispers against Silver’s earlobe. “Stay.”

“As if you could ever get rid of me,” Silver smiles into the soft kisses against his lips.

Flint folds him into his arms, and rests his chin on top of Silver’s head. The pitter-patter of their hearts is comforting like the sound of waves crashing against a faraway shore. “You never told us how the rest of that fairytale goes,” he says quietly. “The one with Elijah’s violin.”

“Well, if I tell you the ending of the fairytale, you and Thomas might decide you no longer have use of me,” Silver purrs warmly against Flint’s chest.

“Oh, I suspect we might find a use or two for you yet. Aside from your gift of gab.”

“All right,” Silver says, his body warm and heavy and melding perfectly against Flint’s own, “So, you remember how the King had three daughters?”

“Yes, you already told us that part.”

“Well, the real heroine of the tale is the King’s favorite daughter, the one who asked that he bring her back Elijah’s violin…”

A gondolier begins to sing the familiar notes of _La donna è mobile_ under their windows. A flock of seagulls lands on a rooftop across the canal. Flint closes his eyes, and allows himself to be carried away on the tide of Silver’s fairy-telling.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> *Elijah’s Violin really is an old Jewish fairytale. If you’re curious to know the rest of it, you can actually read it [online for free](http://www.umsl.edu/~schwartzh/ev6.html).  
> *Il Cannone Guarnerius really was [Paganini’s violin](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Il_Cannone_Guarnerius). As far as I know, it was not actually bewitched. Paganini could do things with his fingers that boggled the minds of his contemporaries. Contrary to demonic rumors, modern historians think Paganini actually suffered from a rare connective tissue disorder called Marfan Syndrome, which makes the limbs very long and limber and would have allowed his fingers to stretch across so many octaves.  
> *And [here’s](http://themascherade.com/contents/en-us/d5_Page_5.html) a link to Venetian Carnival Masks to aid in visualization.
> 
> Thank you, Anette, for being a fabulous beta, as ever! Thank you, Mel, for doing 99% of the heavy lifting for the SFBB! You're a mod extraordinaire! 
> 
> Please let us know if you enjoyed the fic and the art. Grazie!


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